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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29351742">Dissection of a Raven</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurOracle/pseuds/AmateurOracle'>AmateurOracle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Titans (Animated Series), Teen Titans - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(but only if you squint), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Autistic Raven, Canon Compliant, Don't repost to other sites, Dreams and Nightmares, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Gore, Hopeful Ending, How Do I Tag, Mental Health Issues, Mental Link, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prophetic Dreams, Raven-centric, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Teammates to Friends to Family, animal injury, autistic writer, building of trust, if you read as ship i'm coming to your house and biting you like a rat, robin-centric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:02:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,983</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29351742</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurOracle/pseuds/AmateurOracle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bird watching goes both ways. </p><p>A fic going into depth about the specifics of the "bond" between Raven and Robin described in-show, set after the events and aftermath of "Haunted". Weird psychological nonsense contained inside.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Raven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Dreams and Memories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Content warnings! The animal the "animal injury" and "gore" tags are talking about is 100% fictional in-universe, as it's happening in a dream, but that doesn't mean it's not uncomfortable to read. General warning for disturbing and surreal imagery.  </p><p>If you'd like to skip these sections, they are able to be skipped. The first and third texts (separated by the dashes) are considered dubious, as well as being written in. All that you need to understand if you intend on skipping them to avoid being confused is that they are disturbing, and that everyone in-universe thinks they're disturbing also. There is also a small throwaway line at the end that may be considered uncomfortable.</p><p>Now that that's over with. Special thanks to BroImLooking for beta reading, and for listening to all of my infodumps. </p><p>Enjoy :)</p><p>(Note: Original epistolary POV for dream sequences have been removed bc I don't like them anymore, now it's in regular third person.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is a black bird splayed on the table. The frontal skin and muscle of it’s chest is removed with surgical precision, leaving it’s insides bare to the clinical, cold room. The floors are Silikal, it’s got a weird sort of squishy feel against his feet that’s all too familiar, <em> (When exactly was the last time he was in the hospital? He can’t place your finger on it. Everything before this moment is coated in a smarmy, ointment-type blur. He doesn’t even know how he got in here.) </em> and he can see it through his lower peripheral vision, the spattering of grey-brown-black-white rubber. He’s pretty sure the walls are white, but he can’t really see, because he can only stare at the bird. The bird is on a steel table. Stainless steel, the medical type. </p><p> </p><p>There is a small dish full of items, every single one spotless, shiny. There is no blood on the table, or on the corvid, or on him. he's pretty sure he didn’t do this, because he can’t remember dissecting it, or wanting to dissect it, or having to dissect it, or being told to dissect it, but he can barely remember anything at all, so maybe he did.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a pretty corvid, he thinks. Maybe he's just saying that because he can’t look away. Maybe he can’t look away because he thinks that. Either way,he's looking at the black bird, that he's now identified as a corvid, and he's looking at it very long and hard, and he's trying to pretend he doesn’t see the gaping hole in it’s chest, so he's focusing on the feathers. </p><p> </p><p>It’s feathers are silky black, and they shine in the LED lighting, reflecting a blue-purple color. They’re black and blue now, but they’re white sometimes, when it’s very young, or very old, but not now. They’re the milk teeth and final coat, for the corvid. He thinks that’s kind of sad, <em> (Will it wear white on it’s wedding? Probably not. But he doesn’t even know if it wants to be wed in the first place, so he doesn’t ask.) </em> but he can’t do much about it. </p><p> </p><p>The corvid’s name is Raven, and it’s staring up at him with purple eyes. </p><p> </p><p>It’s aware of what’s going on-- he's sure of it --but it doesn’t seem to care. It’s very patient, looking at him with eyes almost fond, almost apologetic. It’s on the cusp of something, of everything, but it’s impossible to make out, isn’t it? It always was, It's always been like this, but he took it in anyway, picking it up gently, holding it with two hands over either wing, to stop it from flying prematurely, assuring it that you were all excited to have it here, that it belonged here as much as anyone else. It has always been a mystery to him, but he didn’t care. </p><p> </p><p>That’s a lie. He always cared. But not enough to do anything about it. There was always something more important going on, until now.</p><p> </p><p>Because now there’s nothing. Nothing else to distract himself with. Nothing to placate himself with. </p><p> </p><p>He's here, and the raven is there, and He's staring at it, while he is perfectly intact, perfectly whole. He can feel the stitches of the last time he was open and leaking down his chest and stomach, but he's whole now. And it’s there, and it’s staring up at him, splayed out, lungs slowly intaking breath and breathing out through its nostrils, perfectly calm.</p><p> </p><p>It has an air of understanding swirling around it, like it knows what he has to do. It’s uncomfortable. A part of him wishes it would struggle, wishes it would resist, wishes it would like to keep the privacy it’d held in a death grip for so long. Doesn’t it want that? It’d begged and squawked for privacy and space for all the time he’d known it. He had watched it claw at the wolf, getting centimeters from clawing out it’s eyes, because it never listened. <em> (It never had done it, it was always delicate with him, compared to what he’d seen it do. But he’d seen the hesitation.) </em>He’d seen it puff up at the jungle cat, for daring to push forward past it’s established boundaries. He’d seen it sit an arms length away from the bear, enjoying company, but startling if the bear stepped closer, it’d spook, flying away where no one could reach for hours or days.</p><p> </p><p>He’d understood, of course. But you also knew it was fear. That the raven was afraid of the beast, of the warrior, of the machine, of himself. But it was here, staring up at him, laying like a dying dog. What had changed in that time? Was it personal? Did you even deserve this?</p><p> </p><p>He pushed his hand forward gingerly, and he's shaking, but it doesn’t seem to care. He thinks it is supposed to care. </p><p> </p><p>His fingers hesitate over the open chest cavity. It doesn’t look like any anatomy he's ever seen, and though he doesn’t remember caring about bird anatomy, he can’t recognize any of the bone structure, any of the organs inside. It’s absolutely incomprehensible. </p><p> </p><p>Nonetheless, the bird is looking at him expectantly. It’s breathing has slowed even more, and it’s staring at his hand <em> (the hand that is hovering over it’s open chest) </em> expectantly. He try to pretend this isn’t weird and that he knows what he's doing, even though he's not even sure what he's <em> supposed </em> to be doing, and take a firm grasp into the cavity, feeling the contents spill from between his fingers like slush. It’s like squeezing a rotten apple, feeling it explode. </p><p> </p><p>He reels back, feeling the contents dripping down his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>-------</p><p> </p><p>She is sitting on the floor, on a small intricately woven blanket, separating her from the marble tile. It is covered in embroidery, flowers, plants, words written in a language she cannot read yet. </p><p> </p><p>There is a fire burning in the fireplace, and there are three large books spread out before her. They are full of intricate lettering that she can’t understand yet either. Despite this, she’s practicing them. Writing them down on a fat slab of clay, pudgy fingers gripping a thick writing tool, indenting it into the clay. It’s made of wood, and cut at an angle. She’s fulfilled three lines of it already, and it’s sort of messy, but she can’t be older than four, so it’s impressive. </p><p> </p><p>She’s alone, but she seems to be behaving. She’s simply working quietly in the room, making pretty indentations on the slab. They’re getting neater the longer she works at them.</p><p> </p><p>A soft squealing from nearby draws her out of the zone. She pauses, head looking from side to side, before locking on the window. She stands, shoes making a soft dull sound as she makes her way to it, trying to look over the edge. It’s too tall, so she stands up on her tiptoes against the wall, white stone beneath her fingers as she peers out.</p><p> </p><p> The grounds are vast and lush, perfectly watered, though this is only a small portion of it. The courtyard is filled with beautiful, soft-looking rabbits. They all appear well-fed and healthy, beautifully groomed. They are gathered at what appears to be a vegetable garden, except for… one. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a spotted rabbit stuck inside a small overturned pot, squeaking and writhing, trying to free itself from its clay prison. </p><p> </p><p>Without thinking, she climbs higher on the window, not yet aware of the danger. She feels two large hands grasp at either of her sides, holding her up, gently pulling her away from the window, despite the squeaky protest of the young girl.  </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Littlun </em> .” Her voice sounds like ringing bells, and she looks ancient, but she’s aged gracefully. She looks like a saint, white veil and delicate wrap around the crown of her forehead. The veil drapes over her shoulders, blending with the flowy white cloak around her body. She recognizes her, they’ve known each other for a while. “ <em> You must be more careful. Those windows are not for climbing. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>She isn’t speaking English, but at the moment, the difference isn’t immediately obvious. She isn’t hearing <em> words </em>, the meaning of them is just fluttering into her brain. All that’s apparent is that it isn’t english.</p><p> </p><p>“Mmn,” She wants to apologize, looking up into the old woman’s eyes, squirming. “There’s-- There’s a bunny.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> There are many bunnies. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“There’s a bunny.” She repeats, and she feels the edges of frustration curl into her mood. She’s saying ‘There’s a bunny’, but what she means is ‘there’s a bunny, stuck. I was trying to help him.’. For some reason, the words won’t come out of her mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Is there something wrong with a bunny? You’re upset </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods frantically.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Can you take me to what’s upsetting you? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, grabbing the older woman’s hand as soon as she’s let down, running quickly though the halls, little feet going plat-plat-plat on the cold tile. Despite her age, she’s able to keep up well, and it’s probably because she is incredibly tall. She has to crane her neck up to look back at the woman, whose face is serious. She nods at the girl, and the girl nods back, looking forward, now deadset on her mission.</p><p> </p><p>They arrive at the bottom of the building, one of many entrances to the courtyard, (The quickest one, she knows it by heart.) and she runs through the beautifully sculpted archway. She finds the large pillar, the one where the window rested up high.</p><p> </p><p>The girl looks around the courtyard, before spotting the source of the noise quickly, rushing over. </p><p> </p><p>She kneels down, and with small hands, she grabs either side of the bunny, pulling gently, coaxing it’s form out of the overturned pot. The bunny stops squealing all at once, looking around in confusion, and then locking eyes with the girl. She sits back, crossing her legs, and bringing the large, spotted bunny into her lap. Its fur is soft beneath her fingers, and it slowly starts to calm down and relax the longer she pets it.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> I see. </em> ” Says the woman, kneeling down beside the girl. “ <em> It was stuck, and you wanted to come help. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>She nods. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Next time, you need to be more careful. You won’t be able to help any bunnies if you are hurt, and it is dangerous to climb on windows. Though… If you would like, you can bring him up to help you while you study. You’ll have to return him to the herd by tonight, but right now he seems very happy with you. I will go get him some treats to munch on? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>She beams up at the woman, and stands, holding the bunny gently in her arms. She runs through the hallways much slower this time, teetering back and forth. It’s not a very big rabbit, in the grand scale of things, but she is very small, so the rabbit takes up most of her arms, front paws resting on her shoulder. Luckily, it seems patient enough to not squirm as she makes her way back up to the room. </p><p> </p><p>The rabbit settles by her side, and the girl picks up the tool once again, continuing her work. The woman returns shortly, kneeling beside the girl, a small array of vegetables in her hands. She drops them down, and the rabbit leans forward to pick one up in it’s teeth, softly munching, securing it between its front paws. </p><p> </p><p>She strokes her hand over the rabbit, and the girl pushes her hand forward, on top of the woman’s. The woman pauses, blinking slowly and looking up to the girl. </p><p> </p><p>“Why is my skin grey?” She says, holding her hand over the rabbit’s spots, showing the similarity in color. “You’re peach.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> You were born that way. </em> ” Says the woman, stroking the girl’s hair fondly. “ <em> Just as I was born this way. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.” She says softly. “How old are you?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> I’m very old, Littlun. Can you show me your cuneiform? </em>” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The rest of the memory fades, leaving a pleasant, but sort of strange aftertaste.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>-------</p><p>In a snap, he's back at the hospital. He's backing away from the operation table, head reeling from the information that’d been dumped into his brain, shaking his hand furiously to try and get the substance off it. </p><p> </p><p>The bird is screaming now, jerking and spazzing. It’s the most atrocious sound he's ever heard is in his entire life. The sound of a beast dying, or at least one that thinks it’s dying. It’s saying something, and he can’t make it out. It’s bound, he realizes, eyes locked on it seizing. Bound to the table. Previously calm because it had no other choice. Regret is thick in his lungs, and he can’t help but cough as well, back pressed against the door. It’s shrieks are filling the room.</p><p> </p><p>“I’M SORRY!” He shouts, hoping that it’ll hear him. It won’t. He's consciously aware of this. “I’M SORR-”</p><p> </p><p>-------</p><p> </p><p>Robin sits up in a cold sweat, chest heaving, gripping his covers tightly. His hands are shaking, he notes, but there’s an odd distance to it. He’s freaking out, but he’s exhausted, so he can barely get himself to care. He turns on the lights, rubbing his tired eyes. He sighs, and lays back down with a ‘thwump’, feeling the thump-thump-thump in his chest beat too fast for him to count. He can feel his emotions swirling unpleasantly in his gut, and he’s sure he’s too restless to fall back asleep, so he slides on his mask, feeling it settle perfectly against his brow and cheekbone.</p><p> </p><p>The tower is quiet at night, he realizes, walking the halls. The walls hum, but he knows he’s only aware of it because it’s the only noise available. Being on an island means the noise of the city is deafened, and the only sound outside would be the crashing of the waves on the rocky shoreline, but it’s too soft to be heard inside. He knew this when he had designed the tower with Cyborg, but it was weird now that he was aware of it. Sometimes he misses the white noise of the city. </p><p> </p><p>He’s not exactly sure where he’s going, but he’s going. One foot in front of the other. </p><p> </p><p>He stops before the kitchen doorway. The light is on inside, and someone is moving inside. He moves to peer in, one eye bridging the paneling of the doorway.</p><p> </p><p>Raven is shuffling back and forth at the kitchen counter in a fashion that’s very un-Raven-like. Disorganized, he decides is the right word. She’s stressed. </p><p> </p><p>She’s wearing a pair of sweatpants that’s two sizes too big, and a huge sweatshirt she’s draped over her shoulders. Her hair is clasped up in a large claw clip, and Robin knows it can’t possibly be hers, meaning she probably borrowed it from Starfire, whether intentional or not. It’s kind of sweet.</p><p> </p><p>He clears his throat as he makes his way inside, and she freezes, slowly turning to face him. <br/><br/>“Robin.” <br/><br/>“Raven.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, and then continues working. “Tea?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Sure. Want to tell me why you’re up so late making tea?”<br/><br/>She shakes her head, gathering another mug from the cabinet, and setting it beside the first one. </p><p> </p><p>“Not really. Would you like to tell me why you’ve decided to join me tonight?” Her voice is almost the same as it always is, but there’s a lightness underneath the surface.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs, sitting down on one of the stools, resting his chin on the counter, arms crossed before him. “Weird dreams.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm?” She asks, tilting her head over her shoulder to look at him.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m awake because I had a weird dream. The… Genre of dream has been happening for a while, just… Worse tonight.” </p><p> </p><p>She pauses, rocking her head back and forth while she ponders over that answer. Her manicured fingers tear open the box, digging around and setting a bag into each cup, before delicately pouring the hot water over each, dumping the excess water down the sink. She doesn’t fill the mugs to the top, he notices. </p><p> </p><p>She taps her fingers along the rim of the ‘I’m ducking awesome’ mug, before turning to look at him. <br/><br/>“We’re in the same predicament… Sort of. I don’t really want to talk about it… Do you care to indulge details?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm. Not really. It’s not…” He shakes his head. “Not like they were before. Before, they were scary because they could actually happen, and I wasn’t sure if they did, now it’s just… Weird. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not that I’m afraid of it, afraid of it happening. It’s just nonsense, but… it was disturbing. Visceral. Feels like I was never supposed to even see it, I can’t even understand most of it.” </p><p> </p><p>She nods, slowly moving to grab the milk out of the fridge, taking out the tea bag with skilled fingers and then pouring a heaping ‘bloop’ into each mug, dropping the tea bags into the trashcan on her way to the cabinet. She digs into the cabinet, procuring the sugar bowl, and mixing an equal amount into each cup. She grabs both mugs, before setting them on the counter, sliding one towards him and taking a sip of her own.</p><p> </p><p>He mumbles a quiet thank you. The taste is herbal, but not unpleasant. He’s not sure if he would drink it on a normal day, but the milky sweet flavor is comforting as it warms his throat and mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“It’ll help you get back to sleep.” She offers, “But it takes a bit to set in. When did they start happening?”<br/><br/>She’s prodding him, but he can’t seem to mind too much. She’s just trying to help, and he’s sure if he stopped her, she would pause without protest. </p><p> </p><p>“After the…” He pauses. “After my psychotic break. But it’s not about… Slade. They used to be, used to be kind of realistic. Slade is in the tower, and when I wake up from them, I have to check the tower for him. Not all of them were about him, but a lot of them were. Some of them were about my parents, or things that happened to me while I worked under… <em> him </em>. Now it’s just… Not even about anything. It’s just… Weird. I don’t know how to describe them without going into detail. The start of the dream used to play over and over, and I never got very far… until tonight. And then it finished, I guess, but I don’t believe it’s over.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods softly. “I understand completely.” </p><p> </p><p>He believes her. </p><p> </p><p>“You’d think I would be grateful.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I don’t have to worry about waking up at three AM, and having to check all the security systems in the tower.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think that’s much better.” She offers. Her brutal honesty is comforting. “You’re still awake, and you’re still deeply unnerved. You’re able to recognize reality, which is good, but that’s still… Not great. This isn’t… a great habit to have, as much as I’m enjoying your <em> late night tea </em>company.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s true.” He nods. </p><p> </p><p>He takes another sip of tea. It’s nice, the flavor. Each sip becomes better, though maybe he’s just getting used to the taste. He still doesn’t think he’d drink it normally, but maybe wanting to drink sleepy-tea isn’t a great achievement. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think I ever thanked you, for that.” Robin breaks the silence. </p><p> </p><p>“For what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Saving me.”<br/><br/>“You were in recovery. By the time we let you out of recovery, you had to make up for all the time you lost. I didn’t take it personally. Plus, I’d rather not have to do any paperwork rather than a formal thank you. <em> Sheesh </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>He blows a puff of air out of his nose. ‘Sheesh’ is an odd word when it comes out of her mouth. She’s intentionally overplaying it, but it doesn’t stop it from being funny. Her lips ghost upwards. She’s trying to cheer him up in her own way, and that’s sweet.</p><p> </p><p>“And anyway, it’s kind of my job. I’m sorry it had to come to that.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t mind.” He swirls his tea around. “You’re trustworthy. And anyway, it’s not like I had much of a choice.” </p><p> </p><p>She frowns. “I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head. “I mean, the only reason I’m alive is because of you, Raven. You did what was needed to keep me alive, and I’m grateful.” </p><p> </p><p>She nods.</p><p> </p><p>The atmosphere is quiet. Everyone else in the tower is asleep, but they’re there, together, and something about it is kind of funny. What a coincidence that they woke up at the exact same time, or at least in similar enough time that he was able to snag a tea from her brewing. He should be satisfied, and he should quietly drink his tea, say his thank you’s, and go right back to sleep. </p><p> </p><p>But, he can’t. There’s something chewing on the back of his brain. Gnawing with it’s molars, grinding his cerebellum into a paste. </p><p> </p><p>“You can not answer this, but… Where did you grow up?” The question comes out before he can stop himself from saying it, and he kind of regrets it, though there’s nothing he can do now. </p><p> </p><p>Raven didn’t respond at first, and that was when she stopped looking at him. She’s thinking, pondering over the question, mentally tossing it back and forth between her hands, deciding what to do with it. Her consideration is almost as surprising as her answer, but not quite.<br/><br/>“I grew up in a place called Azarath. It was a utopia where the sun never set.” She still won’t look at him, she's tracing the countertop with her fingers. “And no matter how long you look for it, you’ll never find it, because it doesn’t exist anywhere in the universe.” </p><p> </p><p>She pauses, and glances up at him, trying to gauge his reaction. He tries to keep an open face, and nods slowly. She seems satisfied with that, looking back down.</p><p> </p><p>“It exists in a pocket dimension, and it has been sealed from the inside. No one can enter unless permitted. It was created by the greatest minds in the universe. The most adept monks, the most evolved sorcerers, the greatest scholars. It is a place that holds some of the smartest people in the universe. It was created by Azar, the leader of a small group of human pacifists to abandon the ways of earth, and to learn the ways of paradise and peace. They created the temple of Azarath, and she taught for two centuries. In this time, the temple expanded, forming into an elite mystic society, and Azar became older and wiser. What was once a society that prided itself on peace and distance from the rest of the warring world, became a sort of… last resort, for the world.” </p><p> </p><p>“Last resort?”</p><p> </p><p>“Some people of Azarath were perfectly content living in a bubble, away from the rest of the universe, but many still have attachments to their previous lives. To their families, to their homes, to their countries. Not enough to go back, of course. They were perfectly happy to live in Azarath, but… Well, no one was happy with the idea of earth meeting an unsavory end. So, in the event something like that would happen… Azarath would step in. They are all pacifists at core, but everyone has a limit, and for many, that limit was the safety of the planets of the people who lived there, and the universe as a whole.”</p><p> </p><p>She quieted down for a moment, sipping her tea. Her breath was slightly shaky on the outtake, and she was gripping her mug tighter than necessary, wrapping her palms around the cup as opposed to her fingers around the handle. Her shoulders are tense, pulled taught toward her body, and the left spaghetti strap of her tank top had slid off at some point.</p><p> </p><p>“So, if something were to happen, they would step in. And, considering they had the most adept oracles in the universe underneath their roof, they would be the first to know. And they did.”</p><p> </p><p>“They did?”</p><p> </p><p>She hasn’t looked at him in a couple of minutes now, but it becomes noticeable at that moment.<br/><br/>“Children aren’t born into Azarath, young adults to elders are brought to Azarath through complete soul enlightenment. They took in my mother while she was pregnant, so I was born into Azarath, and I was the first to be.” She’s changed the subject, but the fact that she’s let him pry this deep is jarring to him. “I was raised by my mentor Azar, and the monks of the monastery. I was taught to be just like them, I was schooled in many different languages, some of which are considered ‘ancient’, and taught ‘dying’ arts that had been perfectly preserved in Azarath for centuries. I learned about all manor of occult, estranged, and odd. I spent hours straight delving deep into old tombs, or combing through a library older than the United States.”</p><p> </p><p>Robin nodded. “And why are you here now?”</p><p> </p><p>“I became informed my presence was… a threat to Azarath. So I left.” She says. “I can’t go back now, unless it’s an emergency.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why is that?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s self inflicted.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you a threat to Azarath?” He corrects.</p><p> </p><p>She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “I--... I can’t, I’m--..” She shakes her head, eyes flicking up to him for a moment. She looks ashamed. “I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright.” He says, putting a hand over her own. Her hands are ice cold. “You’ve said more than I could ask of you, Raven.”</p><p> </p><p>“You deserve to know.” She, looking at him intensely now. Usually, his mask would provide a barrier, but with her, it feels like it’s not even there. She’s looking through him, and he’s looking back. “I saw everything… Everything about you. Everything you relived that night, I saw too. You deserve to know… What I am.”</p><p> </p><p>“Trust isn’t a competition.” He doesn’t break her gaze. “<em> Maybe </em> I <em> do </em> deserve to know, but I don’t need to know <em> right now </em>, and I don’t need you to berate yourself for not being able to tell me right now.” They’re closer now. He thinks, maybe, a mood lightener will help. “It’s not like freaking out will get you out of morning training.”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her laugh before, and the closest he’s ever heard was an occasional snicker. He wasn’t sure what he thought it would sound like. Somehow, ‘squawk’ wasn’t what he was expecting, but it’s the only word that comes to mind. (The joke wasn’t even that funny, and they both know it, he thinks it’s more the absurdity of the situation. They’re both on unsteady ground.)</p><p> </p><p>Her laugh is a weird sound. It suits her, though. A sort of cracky, dry squawk, short and loud, followed by breathless chittering. It’s very human, but not in the way that it’s a sound Robin would expect a human to make, more that it’s so strange that it makes Raven seem more human. A crack in the delicate porcelain of an icy statue. </p><p> </p><p>“I trust you enough to know you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” He says. “You’ve put enough trust in me to tell me this much, and I’m grateful for that. I have enough time to wait for you to feel comfortable.”</p><p> </p><p>She stands up. “I’m going to bed. It’s late. Thank you for having tea with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“You should, it is.” He agrees, “Thank you for inviting me for tea. I feel much better.” </p><p> </p><p>She shuffles out of the room, leaving her empty mug on the table. </p><p> </p><p>As she walks, a part of him imagines the bird from his dream, shuffling out of the operating room, wings crossed over it’s chest, trying to avoid spilling its contents all over the kitchen floor. (Its chest is still open. He’s consciously aware of this.) He frowns softly. </p><p> </p><p>Despite the disturbing thought, when he returns to bed, he doesn’t dream of the bird, or the hospital room, or the temple. He dreams of nothing in particular, and he wakes up feeling refreshed. </p><p> </p><p>They don’t say anything to each other in the morning, but they share an acknowledging nod as they sit down at the kitchen table.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Paintings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bird watching goes both ways, but sometimes it's biased to one side.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No content warnings this time! </p><p>Special thanks to BroImLooking, once again, for being super sexy and beta reading for me.</p><p>I am so sorry personally to the three people specifically who read the first chapter and put it on their reading list only to be smacked with my 2 month hiatus. I don't even have any fun stories, I just got really lazy. I have a bunch of bones I stole from the woods though during the hiatus, if that's consolation. I may have not been writing but I got bones. So... Swag. </p><p>Kind of just a filler chapter based on some things I wanted to write for awhile because I have strong opinions about them, personally. As a general rule, I will try my best to space out the heavy hitting chapters between some more gentle, lighter fluff. You can't survive on estranged bird dissection alone. Can't decide if next chapter is gonna be heavy or if I'm going to space things out more, because I have wayyy more ideas now... But ah, whatever. </p><p>I am not taking a two month hiatus this time, so it doesn't really matter... Probably.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The door to the evidence room opens with the quiet ‘swish’ that all of the doors in the tower make. It is as familiar as it is barely noticeable. Robin looks up from between stacks of evidence. Raven is there, expression blank. </p><p> </p><p>“Good morning.” He says, giving her a nod of acknowledgement.</p><p> </p><p>She looks to the clock. 9:34 AM. “Hardly morning anymore, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe,” He offers. He hadn’t spoken to her in quite a while, but no less than anyone else had spoken to her. “But it’s still good.” </p><p> </p><p>“Indeed.” She opens a window, letting the cool, humid air swirl into the room like smoke drips over the display of an expensive burner. “Good late-morning, early-afternoon.” </p><p> </p><p>“Likewise. I’m hoping you’re not here to tell me to stop, I’ve only been here two hours.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not.” <em> I wouldn’t do that unless you deserved it. </em> The second part goes unsaid, but there’s a weird understanding between the two of them. It’s palpable, at the same spot behind his brain that weird feelings with her always rest. He needs to ask her about that, at some point, but the urge simply simmers under the surface, never breeching far enough to make him act on it. “I need some peace and quiet. Hope you don’t mind me opening a window.” </p><p> </p><p>“Not at all.” <em> The breeze is nice. It’s kind of stuffy in here anyway. </em> He doesn’t feel the need to say it. He’s sure their interaction would read as almost robotic, cold, bleak, but they would both describe it as fond. Comfortable. “I’m assuming your usual perches are taken?” </p><p> </p><p>“Starfire is on the roof doing… Starfire things, Beast Boy is in the living room playing video games, and Cyborg is being too loud for me to sit by, if that’s what you’re asking.” She says, and he’s aware she is smiling, even if she isn’t doing it with her face. <em> I could be in my room, but I don’t want to be alone. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’m glad to have the company.” </p><p> </p><p>“Likewise.” She sits down on the floor, rolling out a small mat of off-white muslin. It's stained with paint, though it mostly consists of blues and blacks and purples and whites and a little bit of red. It’s undoubtedly her’s. </p><p> </p><p>“You paint?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not canvas.” She offers. “But sometimes boxes. I’m not very good, but it keeps them in line with my room’s aura.”</p><p> </p><p>She pulls out a box, almost the size of one of her books, bright yellow, elegant. He sees why she paints them. </p><p> </p><p>“They’re not all this bright, some of them are plain wood with logos on them, but the grain is always bright, so sometimes I’ll sand the logo down and stain them. I like painting them, though.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods and holds out his hand, which she places the box into for him to inspect. His eyes wash over the box, familiar. <em> Cigars? </em>He frowns, and hands the box back to her. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t smoke.” She insists. <em> Nasty habit. </em> “One of the baristas at the poetry cafe I go to does. I don’t like that he does it, but it’s not really any of my business. I’ve managed to weedle him out of not smoking inside, and I think that’s all I’ll ever be able to do. It’s fine. He gives me the boxes, because otherwise they’ll get thrown out.” </p><p> </p><p>“And you paint them.” </p><p> </p><p>“And I paint them.” She nods. </p><p> </p><p>“What do you put in them?”</p><p> </p><p>“Gifts.” She says, taking out a rolled up piece of dark blue leather. It’s tied up with white stringing, and he can’t seem to make out the material, but it looks soft on the fingers, but firm and able to be tightly drawn from the way it’s wrapped up pretty and taught. “From the birds,” she says, like that clears it up.</p><p> </p><p>“Birds?” </p><p> </p><p>“The ravens. I’m sure you’ve seen them follow me around.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh? I have not.” </p><p> </p><p>She unrolls the leather, revealing the contents. The roll itself is double sided, stitched and hole punched in such a way that it forms pockets, and each pocket is holding a paintbrush. Round tipped, round flat, a large fan brush, a smaller fan brush, one that’s flat and skinny, one that's round and skinny, a flat one with a chiseled tip, all in varying sizes. They’re labeled 1-20, engraved into the wood, just beneath the metal nib.</p><p> </p><p>“They follow me around sometimes, when I’m running errands. It used to bother me, but I don’t care that much anymore. I started feeding them, mostly scraps. I don’t think they notice, or if they do, they don’t care. When Cyborg butchers meat, I have him put all of the scraps into a can, and I take the can out to the park to feed them. They like beef fat, and eggs, and peanuts, if you ever need to feed them.” </p><p> </p><p>He nods. “I’ll keep it in mind.” <em> I probably won’t. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> That’s fine. </em>She takes one out, and her fingers are skilled and practiced, slipping one out and inspecting it, running her thumb over the white bristles, (stained at the tip with blue,) until they’ve gone from stiff and crunchy to feather soft and pliable. She takes out the small bottle of water she’s brought with and unscrews the cap, setting it to the side. It’s clear plastic, and stained with paint of the same caliber as her mat, though the water inside is crystal clear, freshly changed. </p><p> </p><p>“And they’ve started bringing me gifts, in exchange for the food. It’s usually garbage, but sometimes it’s more interesting.” She takes a small pouch from beneath her cloak, offering it up to him to examine, seemingly keen to let him dissect little parts of her life. The wheels of his desk chair make a rolling sound against the floor as he wheels over to accept it, opening the drawstring bag and examining it.</p><p> </p><p>Bottle caps, soda can tabs, a small rod of metal, a piece of an earring, some very colorful bits of plastic, a… He pauses, blinking very slowly.</p><p> </p><p>“Is this a tooth?” He asks, holding the milky white piece up in her view. </p><p> </p><p>She nods. “I got Beast Boy to inspect it. Crocodile tooth. I have no idea how they got it.”</p><p> </p><p>He stares at it with rapt fascination, rolling it between his fingers. It’s smooth and sort of touch-warm, like all teeth. He drops it back into the bag, listening to the small clink, before continuing his digging.</p><p> </p><p>A doll hand, a couple beads, a spring, a small handful of sea glass, some buttons, some keys, some small bones looking rodent in origin, some coins and… He pauses again. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> A ring? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not anyone’s wedding ring.” She defends. “As far as I’ve been able to tell.” She hasn’t even looked up from her setup to check what is in his hand, somehow already knowing, <em> (which would be more unnerving if it were not Raven, but Raven has always been weird, so it hardly registers as anything, much less something he should be concerned about,) </em> which now includes a plastic lid from a yogurt cup she’s using as a palette, and a butter knife to be used as a palette knife, as well as a small set of craft-smart brand acrylic paint, which she’s delicately picked the blue and black out of, and is currently squeezing onto the palette.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s only worth about fifty bucks at the pawn shop, and I put up fliers all month about a missing wedding ring… No show. I’m keeping it until I can find an owner, if I can find an owner.”</p><p> </p><p>“I see. Well it looks like you have a crow husband… Or wife.” </p><p> </p><p>She smiles softly. “Mm. Maybe. It fits on my ring finger, actually.” </p><p> </p><p>“It does? That’s quite the smart bird. When’s the wedding?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m thinking of a fall wedding,” She pretends to swoon, and it’s funny to see her so <em> animated </em>. Her relaxed demeanor sits as a comfort, not a marvel. “I’ll have to check with my fiancée.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good choice.” He hums, crossing his arms and leaning in to watch her. “Are you going to wear white? Somehow I can’t imagine you in white.” </p><p> </p><p>She frowns. “I don’t know. I don’t… I’ve never really planned to be married. I’m not the ‘true love’ type, and American marriage culture is… nauseating. But, maybe. It’d be a happy day for me, if I ever got married, so I guess I would wear white. What about you?” </p><p> </p><p>He nods. “I don’t have to worry much, I just have to wear a suit if I ever got married.” </p><p> </p><p>“I wish I could wear a suit. They look comfortable.” </p><p> </p><p>“They aren’t as comfortable as they look. But you could if you wanted. If the person you’re marrying isn’t cool with you wearing a suit, they’re probably not worth marrying.” </p><p> </p><p>She nods. “Good advice. I don’t know if I’d want a traditional suit, anyway. I don’t like pants, maybe the dress would be better. I don’t know, maybe I’d wear a very fancy cloak… I don’t think I’ll ever get married, though.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s okay too.” He says, handing the bag back to her, which she takes gracefully. All of her movements are graceful, and controlled. Someone taught her how to move like that. “I think you could wear a cloak if you got married. No one can tell you what to do there. Would I be invited?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’d be my best man.” She insists. “But you’d all be invited. Maybe, if I don’t get married by a certain age, I should have an un-marriage celebration. That way we all have something to look forward to.”</p><p> </p><p>“An un-marriage celebration?”</p><p> </p><p>“Like a wedding, but I just wouldn’t get married to anyone. We’d eat cake and wear fancy clothes and dance, but just for the fun of it.” </p><p> </p><p>He smiles, Nodding. “That’d be cool. What age?”</p><p> </p><p>She pauses, audibly, and he’s aware of the sudden shift in her mood, the stiffen in her shoulders, the flinch. He frowns. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>He pushes his lips together. <em> I know something’s wrong there, but you don’t have to tell me. We can just move on. </em> He thinks. <em> “ </em>That’s fine.” He says. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” <em> Thanks. </em></p><p> </p><p>She mixes the blue and black paint together, with just a touch of white, to make a sort of dull blue color, watering it down by dipping her brush in the water with a quiet thunk, applying it in a thin streaky wash over the box with a large, flat round brush. The original lettering still peaks through clearly when she’s done, but she sets it to dry anyway. </p><p> </p><p>“They’re moderate cigars.” He offers, resting his chin on his folded arms. A gentle subject change. She responds to it well enough, happy to be rid of the topic that caused her discomfort. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” <em> You better not smoke. </em></p><p> </p><p>“I don’t. I was at business parties sometimes, though, and they would talk and swap and smoke cigars. I got some lessons about them, what makes them good. Those are from the Dominican Republic.”</p><p> </p><p>“Interesting.” </p><p> </p><p>“Do you know the man who smokes them well?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sort of. I’m a familiar face at the cafe,” She says, already picking up the box to do another thin wash of color over it, a comfortable routine. The washes are thin enough that by the time she’s done the first layer, it’s already dry. “Everybody knows me, everybody knows my name, though I’m not sure how many people recognize me as Raven, the Teen Titan, and not Raven, the one who only drinks tea and has crows that follow her everywhere.” </p><p> </p><p>“Everyone needs a space like that.” He offers. <em> I think you need a space like that more than anyone else. </em></p><p> </p><p>The second coat is more opaque, he can barely make out the ‘20-Half Corona MONTECRISTO’ on the side of the box now. She wipes her fingers off on the paper mat, and he realizes her fingertips are stained with blue and black and grey-blue and white. When did that happen? She’d been so careful, in his eyes, the paint has been dry every time she touched it. </p><p> </p><p>She snorts, examining the dried paint on her fingers, staining her black lacquered nails. “It just happens. No one knows where it comes from. You can be as careful as you like, you’ll always get messy in the end.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not good with anything creative, do you paint anything specific on them? Or just make them blue?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, it’s different every time, I just use blue the most because it’s my favorite color.” He’s acutely aware this is a lie, and that’s strange, but he chooses not to comment on it. Harmless thing to lie about, and he’s not exactly sure which part of her sentence was the lie. It’s a strange feeling, for a detective. “Sometimes I leave them simple, but I usually just paint whatever on them.” She offers. “Whatever I feel like. I’m only doing a base coat now.” </p><p> </p><p>“What are you going to paint on this one?” </p><p> </p><p>“Moths and birds and flowers. Maybe a moon.” </p><p> </p><p>“That seems like you.” Robin offers. </p><p> </p><p>She nods, and continues painting the base coat. </p><p> </p><p>It’s funny, he thinks. Her materials are mixed all the way across the board. The paintbrushes look handcrafted, artisan, beautiful pieces of wood craft with intricate carvings, and her paints couldn’t be more than 90¢ each, her water cup being a dilapidated water bottle. It’s sort of charming.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you paint on Azarath?” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s where I learned. I wasn’t exactly formally taught,” she offers, taking large swipes at the box, coating it quickly. “But I did get tips from people more… Artistically inclined. These were a gift,” She taps the paintbrush set, nails clicking on the wood, “From my favorite artist at the momentary. They painted all of the murals, and sometimes let me help.” </p><p> </p><p>He smiles. “That’s nice.” </p><p> </p><p>“They taught me how to draw ravens.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did they not give you any paint?” </p><p> </p><p>“They did, but I gave it to Beast Boy.” </p><p> </p><p>Robin blinked rapidly in confusion, thinking he’d misheard her. “Oh… Really? Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s better with watercolor. I could technically borrow it, if I ever needed to use it, but I don’t like making art for art’s sake, I like making useful art, and that means it has to be durable and easy to touch up. I’m going to buy hardware store wall paint when these tubes run out, because it’s cheaper and more durable. The paint brushes mean too much to me, and I still use them, but I didn’t touch the watercolor for months. It’s the kind of thing that’s meant to be used, I feel better knowing it’s in the hands of someone who will love and appreciate and actually use it. Sometimes I get to see his paintings, they’re nice. She would’ve liked to see them, if I ever return to Azarath I’ll ask to take some so I can show her.” </p><p> </p><p>“Wow.” What he wants to say is ‘<em> That’s really sweet. I never imagined you would have such an interesting philosophy on gifts, and on art. I think it was really wise and kind of you to give those watercolors to Beast Boy, even if they meant a lot to you, I don’t know if I’d be able to do the same if I were in your position. I feel really nice knowing you were comfortable enough to share this with me. I think the hardware paint is a really good idea.’  </em></p><p> </p><p>This, however, is not what comes out of his mouth. “I can’t imagine you in a hardware store.” </p><p> </p><p>She bursts out laughing, pitching forward with shoulders shaking. Her laugh is like the ring of an ancient bell, clear and echoing, but pleasant to the ears. “Mm, Mhm.” She says, wiping her eyes. “Thanks? I think. Sorry, I’m an empath, you just… Had a lot of emotions there, and It didn’t match up with what you were saying <em> at all. </em> It’s funny.” Somehow, this isn’t weird. It doesn’t bother him, or even raise questions, it simply <em> is </em>. </p><p> </p><p>He nods</p><p> </p><p>After she takes a large breath, she continues. “Sometimes I go with Cyborg. He’s not really a hardware guy, though, so it’s kind of fun to watch him pretend he knows what he’s doing when it comes to non-technology things.” </p><p> </p><p>“Cruel of you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe. I do help him, when I can.” She smirks, setting the box down to dry once more. “I like going to the plant section though. It always smells nice.” </p><p> </p><p>“Somehow, I can’t imagine you tenderly inspecting ferns in the garden section either.” </p><p> </p><p>“I like the orchids and lilies mostly. Exotic plants. He got me one last time we went, an orchid.”</p><p> </p><p>He pauses, before nodding. “You got me there. I could see that, actually. You seem like an orchid person.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m doing my best to take care of it now. Only thing that makes me open my curtain… I’d feel bad smothering it with shade, especially since it was a gift.” </p><p> </p><p>“Is it a pretty orchid?” </p><p> </p><p>“I think so. It was a little rough looking when I first got it… It was on clearance. They were going to toss it that night, that’s the only reason I let him buy it for me. It’s perked up with some special attention.” </p><p> </p><p>He smiles, and can’t help but think <em> of course </em> . Now that’s something that <em> really </em>suits her, even more than her interest in orchids in the first place. She’s the team healer, how in-character to go to a store and find the most beat up plant to nurse back to health. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s sweet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t patronize me.” She rolls her eyes fondly. </p><p> </p><p>He’s going to say something back, (A smug retort, maybe) but everything seems to silence as she picks up the box again, taking a pencil (Where did she get the pencil?) and starting to mark out the design.</p><p> </p><p>He leans over to watch over her shoulder, and she pauses to look up at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Am I distracting you?” She asks. <em> Do you want me to leave? You haven’t gotten anything done since I’ve gotten here. </em></p><p> </p><p>“No.” He says, then pauses. “Well, maybe, but I don’t mind.” <em> I wasn’t doing anything important. I like talking with you, and I like watching you paint. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “ </em> Cool.” She says. <em> I like painting here. You’re good company. Maybe I’ll come back sometime. </em></p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome as long as I’m not working on anything important.” He offers, looking back at the stack of paperwork he was supposed to fill out, before turning back to her, unable to find the will to stop his observation. She’s interesting to watch, in his defense. The way she moves is estranged, inhumanly smooth and pretty, like an animation. He pauses.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you human?” </p><p> </p><p>“Only half.” She says, putting the end of the brush between her lips tightly as she digs around in her bag. </p><p> </p><p>“And the other half?” </p><p> </p><p>She pulls it out of her teeth, sparing him a glance. “Son of a bitch motherfucker.” She says, like it’s a real answer. <em> I don’t want to talk about it, but I don’t want to kill the mood again. </em></p><p> </p><p>Robin snorts. “Alright.” <em> That’s fine, I’m glad you’re here at all. </em> </p><p>
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</p><p>“Do you hang out with Cyborg often?” He opts for, instead.</p><p> </p><p>“Mm?”</p><p> </p><p>“You said that you go with him to the hardware store. He doesn’t go very often… Do you hang out often, or is that the only time you hang out?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.” She says, staring at the box with practiced inspection. “What constitutes as often?” </p><p> </p><p>“More than others.” </p><p> </p><p>“I guess.” She shrugs. “I don’t… I’m sure you know, I’m not a very hands-on person with friendship. I don’t know how to do it correctly, and I say the wrong things, and act the wrong way, and I can’t try too hard because that’s weird too. But I’m very fond of you all. When I want companionship, I don’t really try to interact with any of you, I just… linger. And he makes it very easy to linger. You two are alike, in that respect.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” </p><p> </p><p>“When I try to sit near Beast Boy, he will always try to interact with me in some form. We don’t share a lot of common interests, and most of his friendships exist as a formation of common hobbies, which is why he is so close with cyborg in the first place. They share many hobbies, and so they spend time together, and are close. That’s why I gave him the watercolors. We can talk about art as a shared ground, and I like seeing his paintings, but he doesn’t like most of my hobbies and I can’t stand most of his.”</p><p> </p><p>“Interesting.” He says. “I’m enjoying this analysis.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have reason to believe that Starfire has become aware of and attempted to learn the way I do these things. She has become noticeably more aware of noticing me and acknowledging me briefly, then going back to whatever she was doing, and simply enjoying the shared space. She’s also made an effort to invite me places that I want to go or do activities that I frequently do, that outside of our friendship she takes no interest in. In exchange for her being aware and accommodating me, I’ve done the reverse. I will go to the mall with her, and I will paint our nails,” She wiggles her painted nails for him in demonstration, “I’ll let her do my hair and I will huddle up on the couch to watch her fungus documentaries.”</p><p> </p><p>Robin snorts. “Mm, you’re braver than me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Though she <em> is </em>Starfire, her aura has always been very… Bright. I can’t meditate every day with her, I would never get anything done, but just the same, I’m hardly cut out for the things she enjoys doing. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy meditating with her, the opposite. It isn’t about the activities themselves, with her, it’s about spending time with her. We both mess up, but she understands our arrangement as well as I do.” </p><p> </p><p>Robin nods. “Of course, that’s understandable.”</p><p> </p><p>“Cyborg is the easiest to get along with. He’s mature enough to not interact with me very much, and has a calm aura that makes him very easy to be around. As soon as he realized I was coming to spend time in the garage with him, He made the spot I sat in… Comfier.” </p><p> </p><p>“...Comfier?” </p><p> </p><p>“You know the suspiciously clean towel that’s always on the tool bench that he never sets anything on?”</p><p> </p><p>Robin paused. “Yes, actually. One time I set a tool down… Got an earful.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s my towel. That’s where I sit when I want to come hang out with him, so he put a towel there because he felt bad about the metal being cold.” </p><p> </p><p>“He lets you sit on the table?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. He couldn’t stop me even if he wanted to.” </p><p> </p><p>The mental image of Cyborg spraying Raven with a squirt bottle as she tries to climb up onto a table is enough to make him start laughing again. Her hissing like a rabid animal and scurrying away.</p><p> </p><p>“He was the first person I really… Was friends with. I think I’m in debt to him, for that.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think he’d agree with that.” He offers. “I think he’d be mad at you for insisting that being friends with you is a chore.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not about being friends.” She offered, waving him off as she started blocking in the design with a dark grey paint. “He just… From the beginning, he was very good at it, and I think he knew I needed a little… Push. And he always managed to do it without being overwhelming. Always did it gently enough to make me feel like I was the one who really got things rolling, he never held my hand.”</p><p> </p><p>A heavy breeze flows through the window, licking at her hair, maying it sway. She closes her eyes briefly, sighing. </p><p> </p><p>“When the team first got together, I was very unsure of myself. I never had any friends, I didn’t even really do things I liked. It was survival for me, but I was very good at surviving, so I was okay with that. But suddenly, all at once, it’s not about surviving anymore, it’s about being friends, and I’d never been friends with <em> anyone </em> . I don’t know how to connect with people, because it wasn’t something I was ever <em> allowed </em> to do, much less taught how to. The people I formed connections with were adults, and were my caretakers. I’d never been around anyone my age and expected to get along, much less be <em> friends </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>She mixes the paint in the dish, taking swipes with the flat round brush, applying them to the box.</p><p> </p><p>“And I think he knew that. I’d fall behind and he’d go out of his way to sort of… herd me back. The invitation for me to join is always there, but he doesn’t ever expect me to do it <em> right </em> . When Beast Boy invites me somewhere, he’s not <em> lying </em> , but he is expecting me to do it <em> right </em> . He’s going to want me to <em> play </em> video games, or look at comics with him, and he’s going to be shocked when I can’t do it the way he wants me to, when I’m not like him. When Cyborg extends an invitation, it’s just as it sounds. If he’s inviting me to come sit while he’s playing video games, I’m allowed to just sit and read while he does all the gaming. I’m allowed to just sit and watch while <em> he </em> cooks. I can just sit in the garage, and do what I’m doing while he works on his car. And he’s happy to talk, and he’s happy to listen, and he’s happy to converse, and he’s happy to be quiet. Starfire learned by watching how he interacts with me, and if he wasn’t there to occasionally reel Beast Boy in… I don’t really know if I would’ve stayed.”</p><p> </p><p>“We all want you here.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” She says, rolling her cheek onto her shoulder and looking back at him, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “And now everything is good. And now Starfire knows how to talk to me without overwhelming me, and now Beast Boy shows me his art and now you’re… Closer than I’ve let <em> anyone </em> get, ever. You’re in uncharted territory. And we’re all friends. And I don’t even really have to worry that much anymore. But I don’t feel like I’ll ever repay him for his kindness.”</p><p> </p><p>“You could probably just tell him.” He says. <em> If you tell him what you just told me he’d cry. (In a good way.) </em></p><p> </p><p>“I can’t.” She says, shaking her head. <em> I don’t know how to talk like how I talk to you. It only happens with you. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Maybe you should write him a letter. You don’t have to say it all at once.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe.” She says. “I’m more articulate in writing.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re pretty articulate in speech too.”</p><p> </p><p>She huffs, swatting him. “Enough compliments. You cannot sweet talk me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’m not, but I could if I wanted to.” He insists, lips curled up in wolfish grin. </p><p> </p><p>“You would not be able to, no matter how hard you try,” She shakes her head, shoving his knee, making his swivel chair slide back. “I have an iron will.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mmm, yes, but I was raised by the best.” He says, puffing his chest out as he scoots forward to shove her shoulder with his foot. </p><p> </p><p>She gasps offended from her spot sprawled out on the carpeted floor of the investigation room. “Rude.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> You’re </em> rude. You were the one shoving me.” </p><p> </p><p>“You put feet into it. That’s crossing a line.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is <em> not </em> crossing a line. My feet are clean.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to hear about your feet,” She says, standing up and brushing herself off. “But it’s fine. I will be the mature one and step away, as I always am.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are <em> not </em> the mature one here.”</p><p> </p><p>She ignores him, cracking her joints with satisfying pops as she stretched. “Anyway. I’m going down to the kitchen to get lunch… If it’s alright with you, I’m gonna leave the box here to dry since the window is open. Would you like anything?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s fine, and no thanks.” She brushes a hand through his gelled hair. “I should be getting back to work.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, shuffling out of the room, delicately stepping over her setup of brushes and painting supplies.</p><p> </p><p>Robin stands up after the door closes, coming to kneel by the box, inspecting it. The raven head is on the right, and her style is impressionist, messy and in thick blots. Maybe if he were more up-to-date on art, he could psychoanalyze her from it, but he isn’t and he doesn’t need to, so it doesn’t matter. The sides are decorated with delicate flower chains, white round petaled flowers with pale, delicate insides, thin fuzzy looking stems, and delicate parsley-like leaves. He doesn’t recognize the species, he’s never <em> been </em> a plant guy, but he’s not sure it matters. Maybe they’re just flowers. He doesn’t dare pick the box up, afraid he’ll smudge the wet paint, so he simply moves back up to his desk, fingering through the stack of official documents on his desk.</p><p> </p><p>Physically he’s working on organizing the pages, but he’s thinking he should talk to her about the bird in his dreams, four blood stained eyes, voice of a person caught in its throat. It’s just dreams, though. Weird dreams. He’s going to talk with her about it, he decides, but he doesn’t need to seek her out. She’ll be coming for the box, so he can ask her then. Maybe she’ll have some interesting commentary, but maybe not. </p><p> </p><p>He needs to finish these by tonight, though, so he sorts. He sorts, and he writes, and he stamps, and he organizes, and he sorts again, and before he knows it, he’s blinking the sleep from his eyes as Starfire stands before the desk, hands folded neatly in front of herself. “Hello, friend Robin. It is very late, and you did not come to dinner, I came to check up on you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” he says, stumbling as he stands. “I lost track of time. Is it too late for dinner? I’m starving.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, dinner is over.” She says, apologetically. “But there is a plate for you in the fridge, I just have to heat it up, would that be okay?”<br/><br/>“That’d be great.” He says, nodding as he comes to stand by her side in the doorway. He pauses, looking back at the room.</p><p> </p><p>The box, and all remnants of their conversation, are gone. No more cloth, no more paint tubes, no more brushes, the window is closed. For a moment, it gives him pause. Maybe it was another fucked up dream. Though, he smiles, there is blue paint smudged on the window handles, a window that is now closed. </p><p> </p><p>“Robin?” Starfire asks, tilting her head.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, just thought I left the window open.” He says, shaking his head. “I must’ve closed it.” He doesn’t know why he lies, then. It’s just easier, he supposes, then explaining. He’s not even sure how he’s supposed to explain. </p><p> </p><p>She nods, taking his hand and excitedly dragging Robin to the kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>Robin doesn’t manage to bump into Raven for a week.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading, happy to have you here!! Comment if you want. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, will update soon, will update faster if you comment (because Ao3 comments are my only source of serotonin), yadda yadda. I'm sure you've heard it all before. </p><p>I've got about two chapters after this planned, though if you have any ideas or suggestions, feel free to drop em in the comments. Otherwise, I believe that's all.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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